When carb-free isn't enough
by Nifty-Knacks
Summary: De-Anon from the Kink meme, pairing is undecided but may be UKUS or FrUS (Or no pairing at all!) (Rating may rise if I do decide to add in a pairing) Alfred has reached his breaking point, and now food isn't just something he worries about every now and then. It's his life, and this depicts his spiral downward and hopeful climb back up.
1. Day one

Original request:

America is terribly obsessed about his weight, and he becomes anorexic trying to lose it. Someone (Canada, Russia, France, England) notices and tries to get him to stop. Whether the attempt is successful is completely up to you. Smut is welcomed, though not necessary, and a definite pairing is also not necessary. Can be Canon or AU, so human or country names are fine.

My first born if the person who notices is France and they end up together.

Bonus 1: It was a comment England said that made him self-conscious to begin with.

Bonus 2: America tries very hard to hide his disorder.

Bonus 3: Tooth-rotting fluff.

* * *

He stared at the plate a moment, mouth watering. And then he looked back to his own salad, not the steak England had ordered, picking at the greens. The other man glanced at him, rolling his eyes. "Could you please stop acting as if you're going to steal my dinner? I'd rather not deal with the embarrassment of your lard arse drooling. Eat your own food." He'd had a rough day, jet lag and all. Who cared if he was harsh, Alfred never had before.

At least that's what the other nation thought. Alfred just forced a laugh (something he was terribly good at) and acted as if Arthur was being an idiot. "Come on, you're the one who's food's charred! You have to order it that way or something?"

Skip ahead a few months later and Alfred was noticeably thinner. That dinner had been a sort of breaking point. Fatso, lard ass, he'd heard so many names... And those names reflected themselves in the mirror. He'd been dieting... That's what this was. Dieting. The glass of water he'd drank had added a little weight and he looked up from the number to scowl at his reflection, pinching the chub on his stomach with enough force to bruise. The loathing that was reflected in the mirror would've set most anyone on edge. Instead, he continued to glare at his reflection, taking what fat he could in a rough grip. "Stupid. Stupid, couldn't keep your hands off those cookies, huh? It's like you _want_ to be fat. That's what it is, isn't it? Other wise you wouldn't shovel everything down your throat all day, huh?" This self berating, audible disgust went on for a moment more before his shoulders slumped and he stepped a little closer to the mirror. "Dieting," he muttered as he inspected his face. "This'll show them. Show me. I _know_ I can go without a meal or two." The chiseled features that had once been movie star perfect, handsome and smooth, were now anything but. His skin was dry, broken out with acne in places. Lines under his eyes, he'd visibly aged. "I'm a nation," he muttered as he tried to pop a zit. It stung something awful, right by his nose. He just told himself he deserved it. He shouldn't be such a disgusting fat ass and it wouldn't happen. "So nothing can hurt me anyway."

An hour later he was on his way to the gym, typically shiny wheat blond now dull, looking dry and brittle. His routine was fierce, glaring at his reflection when a mirror was near by. He could see himself with those disgusting jiggly bits gone, muscular and toned. The burn in his arms was awful, but he'd realized he was late when he finished so there was no chance to change. Instead he was left to toting his bag, two (he counted) gulps of water as he skidded from the door.

This lunch date had been bugging him, but apparently England had something important to discuss. He could get out of eating. He always did. And there was no way he was ruining his diet. (Which really wasn't a diet at all. Water to fill him up, weighing himself to be sure he hadn't drank too much, Alfred was now a pro when it came to ignoring the gnawing pain of his empty stomach. He'd learned that if you waited long enough it faded. Allergy medication helped you sleep. And most importantly, weight was lost.)


	2. One Month

Lunch. It was one of his dreaded words. Oh, there was a list, and a lunch date wasn't quite as bad as a dinner date.,. But it was still an issue. At dinner meals were heavy, large (fattening). At lunch he could get away with something small and head back to the gym to make it all up. But even eating that made him feel disgusting. It was like he could feel the fat settling on his bones.

He caught sight of England at a table outside an almost trendy, but quaint little café. What a choice. But places like this were known for having calorie free options, weight watchers, things like that. It wasn't all bad. He grinned, wide as ever as he dropped his bag on the ground and plopped in the seat across from Arthur. "Hey! So, what's so important?"  
He gave Alfred a quizzical look. "What have you been doing? You look a mess, and you smell."

Alfred just laughed, pushing his hair back from his forehead from where it had stuck with sweat. Arthur grimaced. "Just working out, relaaax. Someone had to plan lunch and interrupt me."

England sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, well you should've allowed time to clean up. But on to more important matters." As he spoke about political this, politician that, embargos and any other number of matters, he continued to give Alfred curious looks. He looked… Off. This wasn't the sunny boy he knew. He paused as their food arrived. "Ah yes. I took the liberty of ordering for you since you were late," he explained.

Alfred listened, trying to process it all. But he felt like he couldn't think clearly today, and it only served to piss him off with himself. Maybe it had to do with that disgusting weight gain. More than likely, he assumed. The upside had been Arthur not mentioning food. And that had been so incredibly pleasant, until he found out why and it set his stomach to rolling. "You did…? Aw… You didn't have to do that!" he insisted in the way most would. Nothing odd about it.

Arthur just shrugged, smiling slightly. He did enjoy his time with Alfred, even if the other was difficult at times. "It's quite alright. I know your tastes well enough, and I didn't want to hear you complaining whenever it took too long for your food to arrive."

"Uh.. thanks." It wasn't the pleased reaction Arthur had expected. Something was decidedly off about Alfred, and that became even more apparent whenever he just kind of stared at the bowl and plate in front of him. He didn't see food. He saw carbs and calories, weight gain. That's all it was. He couldn't eat this. He could **not.**

Arthur didn't understand and frowned at him. "Well, don't be too grateful," he said sarcastically. "It's only mushroom soup and a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Yeah… I can see that." What bread, butter, cheese (it looked to be cheddar), cream, and whatever else had gone into the soup. Was it canned? If so then the calories were even higher. Before Arthur could complain anymore Alfred was waving over a waiter. "Yeah, can I get a glass of water?" Not, can I get a refill on my soda.

Arthur was bewildered, not even having touched his own food. What _was_ Alfred doing? "Al- Alfred," he said insistently, trying to get his attention.

"Huh?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?!" His tone was quickly defensive, causing Arthur's eyes to widen.

"Yes! You're acting strange. Aren't you going to eat?" Alfred's expression was almost- Terrified? Panicking? He'd not seen anything like it in years.

"I don't eat after I work out," he quickly explained. "It upsets my stomach."

Arthur accepted this answer, but through the meal acted the part of a mother hen as he encouraged Alfred to eat, even just a little. He sipped his water and was eventually coaxed into eating part of the sandwich. In the end he ate the whole meal, and it tasted so good… Such a lard. When he looked at his plate and realized what he'd done Alfred felt himself panic. Weeks of working out- Ruined. "Be right back!" he chirped, but Arthur had seen the panic in his eyes as Alfred had scrambled from their table to go inside to the bathroom. He'd been acting so strange, but Arthur couldn't pin point why. Maybe he'd caught cold? He'd ask when he got back.

Arthur waited, and waited… And waited some more. Eventually Alfred returned and something seemed off. He didn't sit back down, even though Arthur had ordered dessert. A sundae, something Alfred was sure to love. "Sorry Art! Gotta run!" he said quickly, tossing money on the table for his half the meal, even though Arthur had offered to pay in his worried state. He could swear he smelled bile when Alfred ducked his head to grab his bag.

"But Alfred, wait a second!" he called. He wasn't letting him get away without his question answered.

"Yeah?" he'd paused, just far away enough from the table that Arthur thought maybe he hadn't smelled anything. Alfred was smiling at him… And maybe there was nothing wrong. Everyone had off days and in that moment Alfred seemed just like himself.  
Never mind. But you really ought to slow down. You can't just eat and run."

Alfred's grin faltered, Arthur would've sworn on it. But it was back with such a full force that maybe it had only been a trick of the light. "Yeah, yeah. Later!" And he was one his way… Jogging? He was dressed for it, but he'd only just ate! Something sat ill with Arthur, and for now it was shoved to the back of his mind as he was left with a melting bowl of ice cream on the table and notes from their conversation to organize so they weren't lost on his way back to his hotel room.


	3. Two and Three Months

It continued. He continued. Alfred's combination of working out and _dieting_ didn't seem to have an end in sight. He told himself it was it was good, that he was happy. Of course he was happy, because he was losing the disgusting fat he'd caused himself to gain. Fat. It was like a curse coming from his mouth, a word so disgusting it was no better than the crud on the bottom of his shoe. A minute didn't go by that he wasn't thinking about food. He caught himself always checking his reflection as he walked past mirrors, windows. He told himself to stop being such a conceded ass. (He couldn't. It was a compulsion to look, no better than the words the never ceased to flood his mind after what he'd seen. Why did he never look better? Why didn't he seem to look fit enough?)

This went on for months. He began to avoid people, working from home, exercising from home. He had more control that way. His kitchen was as hungry as the man who owned it. It stopped any binging which he'd realized he was so fond of doing, berating himself for his utter lack of self-control. He was the US fucking A he should be able to manage when he did and didn't eat. (He felt so sick.) He slowly began bundling up. First a long sleeved shirt and longer pants, which soon turned to sweatshirts. He was cold, he felt ill… And his reflection always taunted him. His calves, they were too large. (It was really just muscle and skin. Muscle that was steadily wasting away.) His stomach, it was saggy and lumpy in was he hated. There were bruises from how he'd roughly gripped the skin, his punishment. Just one of many. He'd begun to fear he hated himself. (He didn't. There were so many things he loved, he found confidence in. Food and weight weren't on that list. They began to grow and take over that list, bringing the once confident man down with them.)

No one had seen him in months. They were worried. Well, some were. Others just said he was holing up again as he'd done in his isolationist period.(But did that really make sense, or were they just too busy with their own lives to deal with his problems? Nothing to blame them for; everyone had their own worries and issues.)

Alfred was no longer who he used to be. The happy go lucky blond was gone. His moods yo-yoed. Sometimes he was calm, almost happy as he relaxed and watched TV, or he felt accomplished as he finished up another stack of papers. (His attention to deadlines had improved. It had never been bad, but now it was perfection, which was amazing since he could no longer concentrate for long times. The time spent at home helped.) Other times he wouldn't get out of bed for hours, curled up with his mood at rock bottom, having plummeted. He hated those days, they were the worst. At times he would cry (and staunchly refuse to admit it) and he didn't know why. But in public it was always a mask. It was always the energetic man everyone knew. And he could manage this since he hardly had to wear that mask.

But his mood could only hide so much. His mood couldn't hide his thinning, dull hair. It couldn't hide the bags under his eyes, because no matter how long he might lay in bed he was always tired. And it couldn't hide where thin, and bone had replaced what had once been muscle and soft. He'd once been the ideal sort of person to cuddle. Warm, slightly soft but strong. Now there were sharp elbows and the faint outline of ribs. They weren't obvious or protruding, but he was on his way.

Arthur was concerned, Francis worried. They talked between themselves about the other, letting their worry touch their tones. Neither had seen him or heard of him seeing anyone else. He would answer emails, and video chats were few and far between. Eventually Arthur mentioned their lunch that day and Francis grew more thoughtful, a frown marring his features. "Arthur… You do realize, it is very odd for him to dash off to the rest room right after eating?" He didn't want to answer. He slowly nodded all the same, reluctant to think where this was going. "And skip dessert," he added. This time Francis was the one to nod.

The two discussed it for a while longer, snapping at each other from time to time, but for the most part getting along. They needed to figure out what to do. It seemed farfetched, really, to think that such a confident and 'Heroic' man would fall to that… But then, as Francis reminded him, wasn't it opinions like that that led men to hide these kinds of things? And wouldn't Alfred be just the one to do that? He prided himself on being strong and this was a weakness. He wouldn't want anyone to know. So Arthur set out to get to the bottom of it all. He made a call or two, setting things up before he called Alfred as well.  
"Hnn.. Hi?" he answered groggily, his voice a little rough from disuse overnight.

"Hello, Alfred. How've you been? Up all night playing games, I'll assume." A quick glance at his clock had told him it was around 4:30pm for Alfred. He shouldn't be sleeping in so late.

"Fine. Hah, you're funny. I was getting work done, believe it or not." Why was Arthur even calling?

"Oh? Well, that's good. I'll assume you've finished a good bit of it if you're sleeping this late."

"Yeah… Um, Arthur, did you need something?" he asked confusedly. It was the first time he'd managed to sleep well in the last week or so and he wanted to take advantage of it.

"Yes, actually. I'll be in the States tomorrow and I'm afraid something went wrong when they booked my room. I was hoping that you could be of service…?" He was rather proud of his plan. Get into Alfred's home, glance around and tell himself it was all a misunderstanding, and go home. What more was there to it?

Alfred paused, freaking out for a second. He ignored the fact that if things were normal as he said then there wouldn't be anything worth worrying about. "Uh- Yeah! No problem! I'll have something situated by the time you get here."

"Lovely. Well, I suppose you'll want to be getting back to sleep. Thank you for your help."

"Yup, later." Another yawn and he hung up.

Arthur's plan was a bust. When he landed things went as usual. Too usual. In the end he found himself in the suit of a locally owned, fancy-schmancy hotel. His expression was sour as he sipped on his complimentary champagne (champagne!) and called Francis. "I haven't seen him," he said simply, skipping formality.

"None? He hasn't even said hello?"

"None."

Next came into action their second plan. Arthur arrived in front of Alfred's home the next afternoon, waving on the cab. He was going to talk to him one way or another. He knocked at the door but no one answered. Waiting, he knocked again. Eventually he called him.

"What? Aw, sorry about that. I'm out, probably won't be back 'til this evening," he explained. He was sitting in his office chair. He hated lying, but it just sort of… spilled out. He wouldn't let anyone know.

"Ah… Alright then. Well, I was just hoping to invite you to dinner. Francis will be there as well, and he mentioned that you hadn't spoken for a time."

Alfred squirmed, trying to figure a way out of this. "You know… I'm going to have to give you a rain check on that."

Another plan failed. What to do next?


	4. Four Months

_Author's note: Well folks, this isn't as long as I'd hoped to make chapter four, but since I've not been able to type anything up for a few days I Was itching to get back at it since I finished a few things! And I'm so overwhelming happy at the response I've gotten to this so quickly, and thank you Selia for your review! (You should've seen my grin when I read all that!) I'm glad to see you found me here too :) School's getting more under control so let's all hope it stays that way and I can get more written up soon(tomorrow maybe!) Ugh. College. Anyway, here you go!_

* * *

"Alfred?!"

"Wha…?"

It was four am in the US. Hardly the time for any kind of call that wasn't an emergency. Pity for Alfred that Arthur thought this was one. Avoidance was bad enough, but he was going on four months of no one seeing the other nation, and that in and of itself was strange. Here was a man who so typically enjoyed traveling, visiting others, at the very least convincing them to get on the computer so that they could chat on webcam. And now he was flat our refusing, excuses at every corner. And that was why he decided on a call first thing in the morning. Worst of all, Alfred hardly sounded as if he'd been asleep ten minutes, though he also sounded exhausted.

Alfred hadn't been, and was just as tired as Arthur supposed. Everything yo-yoed between more difficult and easier. Sometimes the feelings of being hungry faded entirely, or were at least a dull gnawing, easy to ignore. Other times they were sharp and terrible. He'd found himself eating celery, supposedly having no calories and a high water content. It gave him vitamins, was healthy… What was the problem? He didn't have a problem, no siree. He was on a diet and doing damn well.

"Alfred?!" he heard again, blinking a few times.

"Will you quit yelling in my ear? Man, it's… It's four?! Why are you calling?"

'You keep falling asleep', Arthur though irritably but refrained from saying anything. "Oh, is it? Silly me, forgetting those time zones. Such a nuisance. Tell me Alfred, how've you been lately?"

He stared at the glow of his phone in the dim room for a few moments before holding it back to his ear. "Uh… I'm cool. Yup. Arthur… Dude, are you drunk or something?"

"Excuse me?! What are- Ahem. No.. Sorry, no. I'm not. It's far too early to be drinking anyway."

"Okaaay…" Alfred was officially weirded out. Arthur was acting nothing like himself. "Then what's wrong with you? Did something happen and you're calling for help or…" He trailed off in a loud, jaw cracking yawn that left Arthur feeling guilty.

If he's really that tired… No. "Me? Nothing's wrong with me. I just hadn't heard anything from you in a while and I thought I'd check up on you. Can't have any harm coming to a superpower, hm?"

"Yeah, exactly. I can't get hurt. Man, Arthur, you're acting really weird. I'm gonna go back to bed if you didn't just bash your head off the wall or something else dumb. I'll talk to you later." His tone was much snippier than usual, strange for someone so terribly (irritatingly) optimistic. And before Arthur knew it his phone was beeping to let him know the other caller had hung up before going silent. He sighed as he looked at the brick like phone Alfred had gifted him months back (before his strange absence had begun), the worry that continued to eat away at him only increasing. Something was most definitely wrong.


	5. Six Months

_Authors Note: Sorry Foreign Language! I can't say that RusAme is a ship I sail, and since this story focuses on Alfred it won't be FrUK either. Hope you still enjoy it! And thank you Selia for another wonderful review! :) I'm absolutely going to continue so no worries there. And nope, there's no chance he's giving up on Alfred. None'tall. And I'm so glad to hear that you don't mind about pairings. For anyone interested I'm leaning towards Family feelings between Alfred and Arthur, and something less than platonic between Al and Francis. I can't promise smut if I go that route, but we'll have to see. Nothing's set in stone until I post it! Now, on tot he fic!_

* * *

Five months. "Five bloody fucking months!"

"Please, Egnland hush. You're going to burst my eardrum."

"Do you care at all?" he hissed, clearly on edge, about to snap at one wrong word or move.

"Of course I care! But one of us has to keep a- cool head? Calm? Whatever the term, or Alfred won't be getting any help." There. He'd admitted it. Francis had finally admitted the fact that even he thought the American needed help.

There was a long, almost painfully silent pause in which Arthur seemed as if he would retaliate before he heaved a sigh and slumped in his seat. "I never realize how good that boy was at hiding…" he mumbled.

"Arthur… He's not a boy. He's a young man and knowing him as I do I highly doubt he can see what he's doing to himself, whatever that may be."

"I know Francis, I _know._ Dammit.. That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

* * *

They had every right to be afraid for Alfred's safety.

He woke up and rolled over, bleary eyed and tired, but unable to sleep. 6:16 glared back at him from the green glow of his clock.

It was another hour before he would roll out of bed, an hour of moments spent attempting to relax, and cursing his body for the never ending frustration of waking up hungry.

He shuffled out of bed, socks, sweatpants, a long sleeve shirt, and slippers in place of what used to be only boxers because he was so warm. Now he missed those days, always cold.

He glared at his reflection as he brushed his teeth under the harsh bathroom lighting. Gone was the smiles, however sleepy, the faint tan of time spend outside, or even the handsome sheen of healthy hair. He hated his reflection. Truly hated what stared back at him. Dull blue eyes. Sallow skin, pocked with acne. He poked his cheek after he'd spit and rinsed, pinching the fat on his jaw. It wasn't fat, only skin. He'd lost the youthful baby fat that had still resided on his face, now replaced with an ill looking man. He looked older than he had. He wouldn't glare at the rest of his body, that came later in the day before he showered. He spared himself that grievance in his morning routine.

Next came breakfast. He made his way downstairs, yawning again and wondering if he could go back to bed. (He never did. Couldn't sleep. Could only lay there and poke at pockets of fat or overthink everything he'd ever done. It was getting to him. He munched on his celery. Crunching. Crunching… And broke. This was nothing new. He 'broke' often enough. This lack of willpower was part of why he hated himself. The crunching was no longer of the celery, but a chocolate chip cookie. A test to his willpower which he'd failed.

Next came the exercise. To punish himself for his earlier slipup he forced himself into the pool. He used to dearly love swimming, but being so cold… Well, cold water was less than pleasant. And that was when he froze. Not from the water of course, but the unwelcome slam of his front door.

"Alfred? …Alfred?!"

Why was _Arthur_ at his house? "Alfreeed?" And Francis?! He quickly scrambled form the pool, drying and getting dressed as he tried to decide what to do. Had his boss sent them? He hadn't been getting any work done… But it was impossible to focus lately. "Shit.." he muttered under his breath, pacing by the pool.

"Alfred?" His voice was softer but the man in question jumped all the same, turning to the door with wide eyes to see Francis. He offered a wide grin and a small wave, making no move to get any closer. And how strange he must've looked, hair wet and fully dressed, pacing by the pool. "Yes… It's too cold outside. Come in, Arthur and I came all this way to see you!" he said with false cheer, filling the silence caused by Alfred's lack of words, turning and calling inside to let Arthur know that he'd been found.

"We're staying for a few days," he continued on with the same cheer as he forcibly drug Alfred inside who was in no shape to fight it. Francis tried not to cringe at the boney wrist in his grip.

Well shit. "Oh… Yeah? That's..cool! I've not had anyone over in a while!" He slowly found his normal tone of voice, something he'd rarely had to use these last few months.

Arthur felt sick when he saw what Francis was dragging inside. Alfred. His poor, poor Alfred, was so… "Honestly now, what were you doing outside with your hair wet? You'll catch cold," he scolded gently, much to Alfred's bewilderment. "I was just… swimming?" he answered, clearly confused. "Yes, yes. Well, come on then. Need to get you dried off." And Arthur needed to do something mundane so that he and Francis had a chance to organize their thoughts. This was nothing like they expected. This was… Who was this? This wasn't the Alfred he knew. This imposter had none of his boisterous energy, potent charm and happiness. And Arthur missed that. He felt a twinge at the fact it was gone, sitting Alfred on the commode lid with no protest and gently, caringly rubbing his hair dry with a towel. No one knew what to say it seemed.


	6. Six Months Continued

_Back from finals and a lack of creativity! But poor Al isn't doing so well... I, on the other hand, am ecstatic. Thank you all so much for the favorites and follows I've gotten while I was dealing with school, and I hope you like this next chapter!_

* * *

Francis left Alfred and Arthur to the upstairs bathroom as he rummaged through the kitchen. Sitting down over a small meal, that would surely help ease a bit of the awkwardness. (And it would give him something to do with his hands as he processed the oddly quiet, ill looking individual that had seemingly replaced the beloved superpower they'd been hoping to find.)

What he found in the kitchen left him feeling as ill as Arthur had looked at the sight of the American. The counters were scarily clean. Everything was. and the cabinets... Low fat this, carb free that. It made sense if he'd been dieting, but the issue was that packages were left unopened, crackers looked stale and untouched and where one would normally find typical daily items in the fridge, milk, eggs, some sort of meat or protein for meals; he found celery in bulk, bottled water, an ungodly amount of coffee grounds, and one half used onion that was well on its way to becoming sentient. Where Arthur had been struck by the state of his lack of personal grooming, Francis was hit by the full situation when he saw the true state of Alfred's kitchen.

Slowly he made his way upstairs, steps creaking under each footstep as he heard the gentle murmur of Arthur speaking with Alfred. There was no doubting he'd been hit with the severity, his normal sarcastic nature gone in favor of something almost maternal. He leaned against the doorway and just watched as Arthur coaxed, didn't force or demand but _coaxed_ Alfred to turn this way and that as he washed his hair in the sink for some unfathomable reason.

"No- No, now stop that. Alfred, hush and relax, if you raise your head you'll hit the spigot." His tone was caring as he massaged the foam through Alfred's hair, glancing to Francis when he noticed him. "He wouldn't take a shower, but he reeked of chlorine," he explained, tutting as Alfred tried to shift again, though for the most part he seemed complacent if not overwhelming tired. It only served to worry Francis farther.

"Ah..." he said slowly, nodding. "Perhaps you should take a warm shower, Alfred?" he suggested, though he didn't move from the doorway. The grunt from the sink wasn't pleased, obviously a no. "Perhaps later. While you two finish up with this, I'm going to head out for a short while," he explained carefully.

At first Alfred noticed nothing amiss, though he didn't want to shower. That came later in the day, when he had enough strength (mentally) to deal with the flood of disgust that came with the sight of his unclothed body.

"Where to?" Arthur wondered, sending him a curious, if not irritated look.

"To do a little shopping. It seemed like you hadn't had a chance to do any this week, and if Arthur and I are to stay over we certainly can't go without food-"

"You- Fuck!" Alfred had jerked, hitting his head off the spigot as promised and causing Arthur to take a startled step back at the unexpected anger behind the curse. It only increased as he turned to look at Francis, his hair plastered to his head and dripping messily all over him and the floor. He held the back of his head with one hand, glaring accusingly at Francis. "You went through my kitchen! What the hell?!"

"Alfred, I've done it almost every time I come over-" Francis tried to speak gently, but it was to no avail. Alfred's mood had easily flipped, and he hardly seemed in control at the moment.

"You don't just go to a guy's house without warning and go through his kitchen! My house, not yours!"

Arthur had listened to enough and stepped forward, placing his hand on Alfred's shoulder in an iron grip. "Alfred," he snapped, earning himself a furious glare that wilted just a bit under the one he received in return. He wasn't afraid of Arthur, but the look he was getting- God, that man could terrorize a grizzly. "Alfred Jones, you have no right to be acting like this, and I expect you to calm yourself right _now."_

This had been the wrong thing to say. Alfred's momentary falter was quickly corrected, his anger turned on Arthur as he jerked away from him. "What? What's this? You wanna act like a parent?" he said, his tone as vehemently hateful as his words would become. "Get over it! You weren't any _parent,"_ he spat. "And you sure as hell aren't one now. Just a drunk, crazy pirate who's ego got too big so he went and fucked it all up and lost all of his precious 'treasure!'" His words were mocking and hateful, and in the moment there wasn't a single filter in place.

Arthur stared in wide eyed shock as Alfred stomped from the room, actually shoving Francis out of his way. He yelled for them to get out before his bedroom door slammed shut with strength enough to rattle pictures on the walls downstairs.

"He..."  
"Yes... Yes, he did."

Obviously neither knew what to say. Francis stepped into the room and turned off the water before he led Arthur downstairs to show him the kitchen, both of them missing the sound of faint sobs coming from Alfred's bedroom at the end of the hall.

He felt like shit. All of that that he'd said- They were hateful, cutting words and he'd had no reason for them. He'd let his temper get away from him, something he rarely did, and especially not like this... And not over something so small! "I can't even be nice to them..." he muttered into his pillow as he let out another choked sob, wanting a way to punish himself for his hateful words, cruel tone. Instead he let himself lay there and wallow in self pity that only increased self loathing. He hoped they'd be angry with him and leave. Leave him alone and not come back, because he deserved it. After talking like that? Why would he deserve anything even remotely kind?


	7. Visiting

_Thanks to Sells and bribri16 for the reviews, and anyone who's followed since I last updated! :) I apologize for any grammatical or formatting errors as I typed this up on my phone since I won't have a computer for a couple of days. Here's a touch of fluff before things go downhill again! (I'm not sure if I should add a warning for talk of death, but just in case that bothers anyone it is included in this chapter.) Now, I have a question for you all. I've finally decided what I _might_ do about the paring. But I'd like your input first. Would anyone be bothered if it was FrUKUS? _

* * *

At first Alfred had thought he'd gotten his wish. He listened to the murmur of voices fade down the stairs, the two moving things around, looking here and there in his kitchen, and eventually the front door closing. It was both a relief and upsetting. Some part of him had wished they'd stay... He knew he didn't deserve it after what he'd said, the way he'd acted, but he was also lonely...

But then he heard the vacuum of all things. Who was sweeping? Better yet, why?! Of course he couldn't bring himself to leave his room and find out. If he left he'd have to apologize and listen to their questions... If he left, he'd have to face something he wasn't ready for. So he stay bundled in his blankets, curled under the sheets as he eventually fell into a restless sleep.

This suited Arthur just fine for the time being. No, he didn't want Alfred upset, but there were some lines you didn't cross. Some things that weren't spoken about. And his parenting or lack thereof was one of those things. After Francis had left to do the shopping he'd taken one look around the house, saw the mess that was some rooms and took it upon himself to clean. It gave him a chance to think about how Alfred looked, and even more how he'd acted.

He had submitted so easily to his coddling (he would admit to himself that that was what it had been), and that in and of itself was a surprise. Normally Alfred seemed to enjoy acting so independent, as if it was up to him to care for the entire world's problems and his own. Arthur found it noble, but stupid. And now... Now, he found it dangerous.

Soon he had the living room cleaned from whatever recent bought of gaming had left it in such a state (absent of the pizza boxes that usually made up part of the mess, he noted) and he moved on to other parts of the house. The kitchen he saved for last, once he was satisfied that everything aside from it and Alfred's bedroom were cleaned. That was where Francis found him whenever he returned, arms loaded with plastic bags which took him several trips to get to and from Alfred's ridiculously sized SUV and the kitchen. Why a single man with no pets needed a vehicle that could seat eight he was sure he would never know. But, it did leave room for all he'd bought, knowing Alfred's normal eating habits and the fact that they would be staying for a few days at the very least.

However, when he found Arthur disapprovingly disposing of every last item in the kitchen, from the onion ate up with mold, to the stalks upon stalks of celery, he worried. "Arthur," he final said as the last bag was set on the counter, looking over the now entirely empty kitchen. "You know that if you toss all that away it will only make him upset again."

"Him, upset? And you think that I'm about to go skipping merrily on my way?" he questioned, not even turning to look at Francis as he started to put things away. "If we let him continue with this he's going to kill himself. And yes, I know it won't last, but..." Arthur didn't need to finish. They both knew that death in any form, lasting or otherwise, was unpleasant. And while most beings only had to go through it once, some countries vouched that coming back was worse than death. It was painful, sickening, and decidedly unnatural. Maybe that's why it was so unpleasant... But Arthur didn't want to think of that, or of the last time he'd had to watch Alfred go through it all. Instead he focused on his determination to get him healthy and fit again.

"I know," Francis murmured quietly, taking to helping Arthur get the things put away. And he did know. They'd all gone through the discomfort of being brought back... What Alfred was dealing with was bad enough. He shouldn't have to deal with that as well. "How has he been?"

"Quiet. I haven't heard a peep from him since earlier... I think he's resting, so I let him be."

Francis gave a short nod, letting the silence drag on for a time. Eventually they came to 'discuss' who would he cooking. Whenever Arthur extracted a promise that the meal would be something Alfred could stomach, but would still fill him, he allowed Francis to be the main one to fix the meal while he was left to chopping up vegetables and the like.

Alfred woke to the sound of cabinets opening and closing, though he couldn't place why in his groggy, disoriented state. Slowly, slowly he woke and came to place the smell of food, just laying there to enjoy it. He called that his weakness. No matter what he did, the scent of a meal being prepared always had his mouth watering. Whenever he couldn't stand it any more he snuck from his room to the bathroom, guiltily wondering why Arthur and Francis had stayed as he listened to their murmured voices downstairs.

Whenever the two heard the shower running upstairs they paused their conversation, Arthur seeming to relax a touch. At least he hadn't had to force him into the shower. "Whenever he's done we ought to give him a chance to dress, but get him down here to eat," he said after a time to which Francis simply nodded.

"Yes, but we should not force him. If there was ever a time for you to act like a mother hen it is now." Arthur gave an indigent huff, but didn't argue.

Finally the meal was finished and and the shower had stopped, the two older countries in the living room while they waiting for Alfred to come downstairs of his own accord. Surprisingly enough, he did. He hated the way it felt like they were staring at him from the second he opened his bedroom door, dressed in nothing better than his pajamas. But, hell, it was his house and he felt so awful, why shouldn't he wear his pajamas?

Next came the awkward silence as he stood at the foot of the stairs, studying the floor as he worked up an apology. Whenever Arthur finally opened his mouth to speak, Alfred quickly shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking a bit from lack of use. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and continued. "What I said earlier... And shoving you, Franny, I'm sorry."

Both Arthur and Francis wished things could go a bit smoother, but there was an awkward lull between the apology and their standing. For a moment Alfred just stood there, head hanging like a child waiting to be scolded before they were up, one on either side of him as they shushed him, ushering him to the couch. He looked almost uncomfortable to be surrounded in such a way at first.

"It's quite alright, poppet," Arthur said soothingly. It was a tone rarely heard these days, but it always helped Alfred relax a little and it did just the same now. "Just sit down, there's a dear."

And before he knew it Francis had returned from the kitchen and he was sandwiched between them both, a spoon of broth being offered to him while they both spoke soothingly. He didn't know what to do with himself, it was almost too much. Reluctantly, he let himself be fed a few spoonfuls before he started refusing and just leaned on Arthur. "Stop it," he muttered. "I don't want anymore. I'm fine."

Arthur wanted to argue that he most certainly wasn't fine, but just sighed and wrapped his arm loosely around Alfred's shoulders, gently rubbing his hand along his arm.

"Alfred," Francis murmured, "You are not. You need to eat and you will feel much better. Just a little more, please? Half of the bowl and we will stop asking you to eat for now." Despite his gentle tone there was also a force to what he said, a bite that told Alfred he should just listen now because they would get him to eat one way or another.

He hated, absolutely hated, how they both had assumed something was wrong with him, maybe something terrible, and neither of them had asked. They were trying to coddle him like some child, protect him from whatever it was. But the looks they were giving him... He felt almost like he was hurting them by doing this, and somewhere over the next hour he was slowly fed the remainder of the broth while being coddled and just leaning against them both. Eventually he had Francis idly toying with his hair while Arthur slowly smoothed his hand along his arm. It was oddly comforting and he didn't feel the need to say a word, just relax there with them and fight the urge to find his scale and check his weight, because he knew these two wouldn't let him up. Still... He felt tense at what hadn't been said. What they hadn't mentioned. He noticed the way Arthur's fingers lingered at the bones of his wrist, he was sure Francis had noticed his hair was thinner.

And yet no one brought it up just yet. Things might've seemed pleasant now, but they were far from over.


End file.
